


Fucking Nightmares

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4564545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Victor has one more fucking sex dream about Huey Laforet, he is going to seriously consider blowing his own brains out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not actually sorry for this, but at least I'm aware that I *should* be--does that count?

Sometimes Victor wonders if shooting himself in the head would reset whatever the hell has gone wrong with his brain.

—Frankly, the answer is that it won’t, and he knows that, and besides if he discharges his weapon then there’s paperwork to fill out and other bureaucratic bullshit to deal with. And he sure as hell isn’t going to explain himself to anyone. So it’s a stupid train of thought to begin with.

Even so, if he has one more _fucking_ sex dream about Huey Laforet then he is seriously going to consider blowing his own brains out.

It’s bad enough when Huey is the one sucking him off. (In the dreams—all of this is dreamed, and it’s never going to be real. God, Victor can list twenty reasons it would be a terrible idea without stopping for breath.) In those dreams, at least he can pretend the arrangement is some kind of acknowledgement of loss on Huey’s part. Of Victor’s superiority. But even when he tangles his hand into Huey’s hair (sometimes short like it is now; sometimes long like it was on the ship) and pushes his cock down Huey’s willing throat, something rings false about those explanations. They’re excuses. Huey’s still in control. He knows it, even in the dreams, because the dynamic between them is the same as it always is: Huey calmly acting, Victor struggling (if he’s honest) to react and keep up. He groans and he curses Huey in every particular and Huey only keeps up his steady work, never for a second lifting his gold eyes to look at Victor as he pulls reluctant pleasure out of him.

But now.

_Now_ his goddamn subconscious has decided that that’s not enough. Now his subconscious has flipped that on its head and put Victor down between that bastard’s legs, and Victor thinks it might have been better to die two centuries ago than to learn that somewhere in his brain, he’s got some _very specific_ ideas about what Huey Laforet’s face would look like while he’s having his cock sucked.

Pale, first of all, because how long has it been since the bastard’s seen the sun? He’s almost literally white, so his dark hair stands out and so does the red of his half-open mouth, the pink that spreads across his cheeks. Sweat dampens his face and makes his hair cling to his forehead, and sometimes he lifts a thin hand to wipe it away. Otherwise, he keeps his hands out of the way, pressed flat against the wall or the bed or wherever it is that they’re fucking. He breathes unevenly, but quietly. His eyes remain closed. Sometimes—usually when Victor’s tongue brushes the head of his cock—his long lashes flutter in place. He doesn’t speak until the end of it, when he says “That’s enough, Victor,” and extricates himself.

Victor has never made him come yet, and it pisses him off that he can’t get a proper reaction out of the little rat even in his own goddamn sex dream.

But only until he wakes, because then he realizes that no, he doesn’t fucking want to give Huey Laforet an orgasm, he doesn’t fucking want _any_ of this—

Which would be easier to believe if he could stop waking up from those dreams with a goddamn hard-on. And ignoring it never seems to help. Cold showers do, sometimes, but it’s the middle of fucking February now and he’s not subjecting himself to that.

So he kicks his way out of his boxers, and he tries to kick the images of Huey’s face back into whatever corner of hell they came from. He tries to think of anything else. Of Lucrezia, often. He thinks he still remembers her face; he thinks he still remembers what they used to do together. He _knows_ that she used to drive him insane with pleasure, that he’s never felt a tenth as good with anyone else as he did with her, that even if he wasn’t her most skilled lover (he knows he wasn’t), she adored what he did for her and was never shy about showing it. He thinks of her as he handles himself, thinks of how her perfect smug smiles used to shift into moans as he got going. He thinks of the way she used to say his name, demanding and pleading and finally dissolving into a level of bliss that he’s not sure anyone besides her has ever reached.

Huey’s placid smugness is the farthest thing in the world from Lucrezia’s hedonism, Victor tells himself with a sneer as he comes, and it doesn’t matter what bullshit his subconscious comes up with: he knows which one he prefers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one asked me to be more specific about this, but here we are

He visits Huey in his cell. This is something he’s sworn to never do—it may be solitary confinement, but by now it’s home turf for the terrorist bastard, and Victor doesn’t favor his chances. Today, he has a reason to ignore that resolution. He can’t recall what the reason is, but it’s a good one.

When he arrives at the cell, Huey is sitting docile in his chair, waiting for him. He turns his usual empty smile towards Victor.

“It’s good of you to come by,” he says. “I wanted to tell you in person: I’m reformed.”

“Bullshit,” Victor shoots back. “You think I’m going to let you out of here based on a stupid little lie like that? You really are out of your fucking mind.”

Huey remains calm. “Not at all. In fact, I acknowledge the wisdom of keeping me contained here. I simply wanted you to be the first to know about my change of heart.”

Victor snorts. “Well isn’t that sweet of you. Just how fucking stupid do you think I am?”

“What if I were to offer proof? An acknowledgement of your superiority?”

He speaks like a recording. A voice in the back of Victor’s mind says _ah, fuck. This again._ But it’s not enough to shake the dream off, and what he feels isn’t exasperation. Out loud, he only follows the conversation’s internal logic: “And just what the hell do you think you can do to convince me?”

In response to that, Huey stands and approaches. When he reaches for Victor’s belt, Victor isn’t surprised.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, you bastard.”

Huey’s eyes dip down for a moment. “It looks to me like you already know the answer to that,” he answers, his smile smug and infuriating. But he’s not wrong. Victor swallows as Huey sinks to his knees and takes out Victor’s half-hard cock.

“Fuck you,” he growls, trying to keep his head.

“Be my guest,” Huey responds, and runs his thumb over the head of Victor’s cock. Victor hisses at the sensation, but the instinct to shove him away fades like a dream does in the light of day when Huey wraps a hand around Victor’s length and begins jerking him off. Pleasure creeps up Victor’s spine.

“This isn’t— _fffuck_ —proving anything,” he forces out. “You pervert.”

Huey looks up at him, unconcerned, his mechanical smile unshaken. “ _I’m_ the pervert?” he asks delicately. “I’m not the one dreaming this.”

Victor grimaces. Fuck his self-awareness, fuck his lucidity, _fuck_ —Huey’s lips close around the head of his cock and his knees almost buckle. He finds himself leaning back against the wall, finds his left fist clenched in Huey’s hair, finds himself accepting it. Huey’s hand cups his balls and he groans. Fuck _everything_.

It’s because he’s so goddamn pretty, but it’s not just that. It’s because of his fucking eyes, the way they get sometimes, clever and intent and overpowering. There’s something in Victor that has a masochistic tendency to _respond_ whenever he can tell someone intends to run circles around him, and alright, he’s known that for a good two hundred years, but just because Huey is pretty like she was, manipulative like she was, just because neither of them have ever had trouble wrapping Victor around their fingers, that shouldn’t mean—

But thinking of her is a mistake, because his imagination supplies a feminine, self-satisfied giggle and he has the sudden thought of her sitting there, lust and wicked delight in her eyes as she watches him fuck Huey’s mouth. Or submit to Huey’s machinations. However you want to look at it, she would have loved the chance to laugh at him. He squeezes his eyes shut rather than look to see whether his subconscious will materialize her there.

But jesus _fuck_ that only makes the heat of Huey’s tongue on his cock more intense. His legs feel like jelly but the need in his groin is wound unbearably tight. He’s gonna come soon and he won’t warn this little rat bastard when it happens—

But Huey pulls back just in time, because of-fucking-course he does, and with two more quick tugs he pushes Victor over the edge. Victor growls, batting Huey’s hand away, and he takes hold of himself in one hand and grabs Huey by the hair with the other to pump his come out onto Huey’s face. The bastard only closes his eyes and mouth and takes it, his meaningless smile never wavering.

When Victor is spent, he leans limply back against the wall. Huey stands, not the slightest bit stiff from being on his knees, and walks over to the bed, where he uses the corner of the sheet to clean his face. Victor sneers at him.

“Got some in your hair, you piece of shit.”

It only takes Huey a moment of disinterested examination to see that Victor is lying. He turns curious eyes towards him.

“Is that what passes for a clever prank in your mind?”

“Shut up.” Victor fixes his fly. Afterglow is making it hard to think and he wants nothing more than to wipe that smug look off of Huey’s face, but the only way he can think of to do so is to kiss him hard, and hell no. _Fucking hell_ , this is still a dream, right? If it isn’t—

The moment of alarm is enough to shake him out of sleep. With a jolt, he finds that he’s—fuck. In his office chair, his door wide open and Huey’s file spread out before him. And of course there’s an obvious wet spot on the front of his pants. _Fuck_.

As he’s trying to figure out the best way to get to the bathroom without being seen—

“Erm… Agent Talbot?”

He jumps half a foot, banging both knees in the underside of his desk in his urgency to cross his legs. Bill is at the door.

“The fuck do you want?” Victor demands, hoping he doesn’t sound frantic. “I was in the middle of something!”

“Ah… well, it seemed to me like you were sleeping, sir,” Bill says, his intended irony only audible in the lack of apology in his voice.

“Well, I wasn’t! None of us has time to sleep until we figure out how that bastard Huey Laforet is contacting the outside!” He smacks his hand against the file in front of him.

Bill nods exaggeratedly as if he’s just understood something. “Ahhh, that explains it…”

“Explains _what_?”

“The way you were muttering his name, sir.”

“ _Get out!_ ”

Once he’s chased Bill out—it’s harder than it should be, considering he can’t exactly stand up—he drops his eyes to Huey’s file again and grimaces. Huey’s mugshot stares back up at him, smug and uncaring, and Victor wishes he couldn’t feel it so fucking concretely.

“Damn you to hell,” he growls, and closes the file.


End file.
